Totally My Squadron
by Darthishtar
Summary: Rogue Squadron needs new pilots, but what will Wedge Antilles do when a Valley Girl comes to apply? An authorized story in the Pink 5 universe.


Note: Pink 5 belongs to Trey Stokes and company. All hail to them.

There were few things that Wedge Antilles, hero of the Rebellion, survivor of two Death Star battles, could not handle, but he had long ago realized that this was one of them.

It was not that she was dishonorable or unskilled. After all, she had survived Yavin, trained as a Jedi and even had a hand in taking down the Emperor, though it was never clear if she had done so by accident. On the other hand, she had deserted the Alliance for a year and claimed that her X-wing had been stuck in a swamp with a sadistic frog who kept trying to get her beheaded.

The medics had declared her to have been mentally unhinged by her experience that year and let her avoid a court-martial because they felt sorry for her. Not only that, but she had been undergoing unnecessary stress due to her delusion that Han Solo should be in love with her.

Near as anyone could tell, she'd kissed him once (and what bipedal Alliance female hadn't) and Chewie had a soft spot for her.

Luckily, she seemed to have regained her senses somewhat and had been instructed to find her place in the New Republic.

Unfortunately, she seemed to think that her place was in Rogue Squadron. 

"Lieutenant..."

"Stacy," she said around a wad of brightgum, not looking up from her nail file.

"Is there a last name?" Wedge asked, forcing himself to remember Admiral Ackbar's lectures on patience.

"Is it any of your business?" she shot back.

He supposed not. After all, she wouldn't be in this office long enough for him to need to know. The fact that Janson was sniggering in the same way that he did whenever Kettch was mentioned did nothing for his nerves.

"Stacy, then," he said patiently, "why do you want to join Rogue Squadron?"

She glanced at Wes as if sharing an intimate secret and blew a large pink bubble before popping it and giving it several thoughtful chews before replying.

"The cute guys," she said unblushingly.

Janson's sniggers turned into outright laughter, which seemed to be the point.

"What?" she demanded. "You told me on the way in to be honest!" 

That was _never_ a good idea.

"Do you have any other reasons?" he asked gently.

"Oh!" she said brightly, apparently catching on to the fact that she was supposed to sound vaguely interested in truth, justice and the Republican way. "Um...I want to do good for the Galaxy...or something..."

He waited in silence to see if she would say something more coherent. Apparently it was going to be a very long wait.

"We are an X-wing squadron," he reminded at late.

That seemed to be the wrong responses, since she cracked her gum as if trying to eat him alive. "What's your damage?" she snapped. "I had to steal a TIE fighter to get off that basketball thingy and now everyone disses me for it! _You_ try getting a new X-wing!"

"I meant no offense," Wedge countered hastily, eager to avoid a full-out confrontation. "It just means we need to run some simulations before considering your application for Rogue Squadron."

"Oh," she said sullenly and went back to filing her nails. "When?" 

"We can schedule you for 1400 hours," Janson suggested, "but there is one slight problem."

"There always is," she snorted. "What is it this time?" 

"Um..."

"You are required to use an Alliance-standard flightsuit," Wedge said flatly.

She blinked, then glanced down at her brightgum-pink quilted flightsuit with the peace symbols and smiley faces doodled all over it.

"And?" 

This was going to be a long day.

"One like those our pilots wear," he prompted.

Just like the eye-hurting orange one that Janson was modeling at the moment.

"EW!" she shrieked. "That is _so_ not my color!" 

"Commander," Janson reminded, "Lieutenant Horn wears his CorSec green."

_Don't make me look at this all day._

"Stacy is not CorSec," Wedge hissed, "and this is not a national uniform, so she is required to otherwise use an Alliance-standard flightsuit."

"Fine," she snapped. "Later!"

He couldn't remember dismissing her. "Where are you going?"

"To get a manicure," she blurted, "and then I'll go get a flightsuit!"

She tried to slam the door behind her, but it was electronically impossible, so they could hear a howl of anger all the way down the corridor.

"She won't last an hour," Wes wagered.

"We can hope," Wedge agreed.


End file.
